Chapter 6

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After twenty-four hours of downtime, filled with the hustle and bustle of the traffic, Radial-12 moved on, slowly at first, giving modulated signals, like a huge whale scaring away small fish. Then the atomic snake accelerated, and the narrow window was filled with dull steppe scenery again, interspersed with a smattering of civilization. After some more time, the pace slowed again, and the armored train rolled on at a speed slightly faster than a good pedestrian, hour after hour, day after day.

There was no time for boredom, Bertha keep riding them all the time and the training took place, among other things, on the wide roof of the car, under the icy wind. Olga already more or less learned how to roll the cart with the cylinders and quickly replace the used tank behind the operator's back. If necessary, if every second counted, the hose could be inserted directly into the 'spare', although it constrained the flamethrower.

Olga became better acquainted with her new colleagues. Although it could not be said that everyone became friends and the girl was welcomed into her new family. There was more of a pause, an understatement... The girl decided that most likely the squadmates were waiting for the test in the real case, which kept getting postponed and postponed.

Things were not easy, either. Although the Priest visited the new sheep every night and preached (or rather, told her how the Imperium was organized). Some things Olga did not understand or understood with difficulty, and she was wary of asking too much detail, despite the monk's peaceful and enlightening attitude.

The Squad was a clerical unit, but it had a paramilitary structure. It was supposed to work hand in hand with the local army and the FBI (which they called 'arbiters'), but at the same time was grounded for independent operations, and the soldiers firmly enshrined the imperative of 'no one but you, only the Emperor behind! Service in the Order was considered extremely honorable, but the staff was completed, for the most part, by force, with a mandatory period of four years of service. The company lived under barracks rule, the unauthorized absence was considered equal to desertion, and mentors and shepherds had the right to kill subordinates on the spot. That is, of course, honor and respect, but the company was more like a penal unit than anything else.

Back on the church ship, Olga had heard some fearful stories about the monstrous, prohibitive mortality rate in the Squad, reaching almost ninety percent. But in all the time the new novice had been here, the company had only gone out on false calls, and no one had died, not even maimed. Though it could not be said that this was particularly burdensome to the girl. However, getting to know the last member of the wagon squad sobered her up a bit.

The middle-aged man, who looked like a wildly bearded Luke Skywalker with rolled-up eyes, was called Madman. He was really a man gone mad, living somewhere in the mechanical jungle of the intermediate floor, next to a washing machine that ran without water. The unfortunate man looked like a victim of the worst kind of post-traumatic stress disorder; the squad seemed to ignore him on the one hand, while on the other they unobtrusively cherished and cared for him. It seems that the Madman was considered a blessed man and the mascot of the wagon. The question of how the poor fellow came to be in such a sad state was studiously ignored by the inmates, even the monk was silent. Olga rather quickly got used to waking up once or twice a night from wild cries of "The walls! They're coming out of the walls! The creatures on the ceiling!!..." and stopped asking unnecessary questions.

Thus, life in the Squad managed to combine an abundance of new experiences with boredom. Frequent training, infrequent trips on false calls, monastic sermons... and that was it. Olga even tried to get unobtrusively acquainted with Demetrius, but the guy shunned her. Or rather, he shunned everyone in general, immersed in prayer or unspoken thoughts.

Four years... Two hundred weeks, one is over, one hundred and ninety-nine more to go. Soon you'll be free with a clear conscience.

Olga was resting after a tedious training session that had begun early in the morning and ended near noon when the 'Radial' slowed down even more and began to chime. It was a chime the girl had already learned. It meant that the armored train would now begin to maneuver through the web of rails and stop for refueling, loading, and God knows what else.

Her legs and shoulders ached from the heavy 'IIFS'. Crybaby made his assistant carry the flamethrower as a skill development exercise. The device was so bulky and heavy that it was not easy even for a man to carry it, so the whole set of flamethrowers or chemical sprayers included a rather complicated system of suspension and stabilization. If everything was properly put on and fitted, it wasn't so difficult to use the weapon. It was still hard, though.

The armored train stopped. Olga kneaded her aching right calf and thought that the amazing thing was that, although it was not forbidden, no one went to visit each other. Each wagon lives its own life, not communicating with the people around it.

And why? It was unclear. However, she was already used to the fact that many things in the Empire have no logical explanation. They simply are what they are, and there is no use discussing or criticizing them. Why, for example, is crappy coffee called 'rekaf', there is no vodka, and tea is considered a barbaric drink akin to moonshine? And because. It just is.

The girl opened the flap on the window to look out at the sun. The local star was dim. At its brightest noon it seemed like dusk outside, but still some variety.

Oh, interesting... it seems to be a station or some kind of terminal. The 'Radial' moved again and slowly drove into some kind of metal forest, where iron trusses, concrete columns, and chaotically designed crosswalks were abundant. All very utilitarian, not at all passenger-friendly. The armored train rolled along a wide, curving semicircle track toward a huge structure that looked like a control tower in the form of a wide tablet with two 'legs' on either side of the railroad track. The train had to pass under it, moving into the mouth of the concrete complex, which looked like a scattering of huge cubes.

"The Emperor protects," the girl muttered, watching the orange and yellow display of dispatchers (or whatever it was) approaching. Above the 'tablet' loomed a gun turret with a machine gun twin and something suspiciously resembling a giant flamethrower's nozzle. She wondered what would happen next, but the lamps under the ceiling blinked three times. This was the sign Olga had already learned - the demand to wall up tightly in the train, to cover all the windows, and not to stick her head out. The girl shrugged her shoulders, slid the armored plate, and conscientiously screwed all the locking screws. Then she went to the galley for lunch.

The cook was usually Crybaby, about whom they joked, without malice, that he didn't even need to salt his food, just needed to sob a little over the pots. Indeed, the elf-like flamethrower never took off his long scarf and almost always either cried openly or wrinkled in readiness to burst into tears. Olga decided that it was most likely a consequence of many generations of adaptation to some planetary conditions - increased tear production and flushing of the ocular apparatus.

"Here," Crybaby sniffed his nose and poured into Olga's bowl a ladleful of what looked like cooked pea concentrate. There was meat in the mixture that looked like a stew. The girl already knew that it was a kind of 'groks,' but prudently did not ask what it was, reasoning that what the eyes do not see, the stomach is not afraid.

From the dark corner of the common compartment Savlar angrily flashed his eyes, Olga pretended not to notice. The girl generally concluded that the noseless man was an impostor and just a chatterbox. There was no real 'imprisonment' about him, no sense of the leaky attic of a real prisoner from a real infernal penal colony.

The train shuddered and stopped. The jolt almost made Olga drop her bowl. Steam hissed and something rattled on the armor plating. Devouring a hot lunch, the novice sadly remembered that today it was her turn to wash dishes. There was no breakfast due to the training, but now there would be something to do.

"I will help."

The Holy Man spoke infrequently, but always in a serious and relevant way.

"Thank you," Olga thanked, picking up the empty bowls. One good thing was that all the squaddies clearly had a hungry past, so the used dishes always shone like licked, not a crumb on the bottom. Less work for the dutyman. It's a pity that washing is not mechanized, although there is a cleaning robot, for example, here, that rolls around and cleans as it should, even knows how to clean the bathroom.

Savlar neglectfully tossed her a bowl with the words:

"Take it."

Olga leaned toward him, pretending to grab a stack of dishes more comfortably, and quietly promised:

"If you bark again, I'll put a pot over your ears."

The convict wrinkled his already ugly face into a very unimaginative face and remained silent. The pseudo-criminal's face still hadn't healed from the encounter with the regicide board and fingernails, which pleased Olga. It's good when bad people suffer.

Not too deftly, but diligently acting with a hose with a weak stream of warm water, the washerwoman as if casually, in passing, asked the volunteer helper: "And where are we?"

"On radial line number twelve," replied the Holy Man, wiping another bowl with a towel."

Olga was quiet, trying to think up the next question. Well, yes... It makes sense - the train with the name 'Radial-12' runs on the appropriate line.

"We're refueling today," the Holy One looked critically at the pot. Crybaby as the cook was pretty good, but every time he got something burned. The long-haired trooper waved his head, brushed aside the annoying strand of liquid gray hair, and reached for the brush.

"Don't go to bed tonight. Go over to Sinner's, he'll give you a thermos of recaf. He knows how to brew it so that you can't sleep a wink. And close to sunset, say your prayers properly. Better go to your shepherd, see if he'll prescribe flagellation. Of course, the Madman will recite for us all night, and the Sinner will whip. But anyway. It'll be easier."

It took the girl half a minute to remember the meaning of the word 'flagellation,' then she stared into the sink full of slushy foam so as not to reveal herself with a mournful grimace. It seemed to fail, but the Holy One mistook the expression of disgust for fear and explained:

"We'll drive by the edge of the coast where it all happened "then."

"I don't know what happened," Olga reported quietly, mechanically watering the plate. "I wasn't there."

The Holy One was supposed to give some kind of clarification, but he only scraped the bottom of the pot with a stiff brush, limiting himself to a short one: "It's for the best."

Fuck you, offended Olga, feeling a slight prick of conscience for swearing at an assistant, and a voluntary one at that. As the minutes passed, curiosity overcame her. Finally, the girl mustered her courage and decided to ask what the misfortune that happened and why it is better not to sleep during the day. But she didn't make it in time.

First, the speaker of the intra-train communication shrieked. It wheezed a little, warming up, and then the voice of the train commander, aka the company commander, a heavenly man whom Olga had never seen before, sounded all over 'Radial'. The Commandant, in the voice of a not too malicious but grouchy old man, announced that the day's training was canceled and that everyone should fortify their spirits, prepare for vigils and pray in anticipation of known events. For, as we know, the Emperor protects. Aquila portrayed Olga already mechanically, with the experience of a seasoned cultist, without retreating from her comrades-in-arms. Only the dropped bowl rattled in the iron sink.

Next, the commandant announced the cancellation of dinner, an all-train prayer at nine o'clock in the evening, and an all-night candlelight vigil for the chosen intercessors. He finished with a not quite clear, but ominous clause about the necessary readiness of mentors to be at arms, to reinforce discipline and 'interrupt excesses,' and then his speech was drowned in the growing rustle of static.

"There, you see," said the Holy One, as if the conversion had cleared everything up. "Everything is clear."

"Well, yeah," Olga thought it best to agree. "It couldn't be clearer..."

A quarter of an hour later, all the dishes were shining in the lattice racks, and towels were drying on the radiators. And Olga thought that thank the Emperor, she had some breadcrumbs stashed away for a rainy day, so that the nullification of dinner would not be so sad. And, again, no dishes to wash. The main thing was not to be written up as a "chosen protector".

Meanwhile, the thunder and clattering outside continued. The Sinner, silent as ever, took his customary place in the corner, under the image of the Emperor. With touching care and concern he refilled the oil in the lamps and lit a new candle, complete with the symbols of faith. Taking a special brush, he brushed the non-existent dust from the parchment scrolls around the luminous image of the lord of the universe. He knelt down, threw a thick knitted shawl over his head like a penitent sinner. And again, as always, he began to bang his forehead against the wall. Olga once again caught herself thinking that it must look very comical... but it didn't. It was the utter seriousness with which the Sinner performed the rituals. And the seriousness with which the others took his regular exercises.

Another day... not the best day of her life, but, let's face it, not the worst. Feeling a pleasant heaviness in her belly and a tolerable pain in her legs, she remembered to check the cart and the hose, just in case. So she turned around and went to the ladder and then to the lower level, to the garage and workshop.

On the garage level, as usual, there was activity going on. The Priest intended to dilute the acid with reagent before all the usefulness was lost in the sludge. The driver demanded, in a loud and very high voice, that the Chimera should be sent to some clerics, because the machine spirit had not received proper care for a long time, was withering and sad. And in general, the promethium from the 'black-north-twenty' is not promethium, but urine, which makes the spirit even sadder. The girl did not immediately react to the approaching sound of heavy leisurely footsteps. Perhaps because the other squad members continued to quietly go about their current affairs, as if nothing had happened. Only when two grotesque figures entered through the vestibule with heavy armored flaps, Olga realized that something amazing was to come.

Servitors. In her long months of living in a crazy world, Olga had rarely encountered anything more disgusting. And her companions on their hard work still smiled, regularly recalling the scream of "zombie!!!" that the girl let out the moment she realized that the servitor was not a robot decorated as a dead man, but rather the opposite - a dead man made to look like a robot.

The first was a human torso in a muddy red semblance of a jumpsuit with a telescopic hoist on a crawler. The dead man's arms were container grippers, a plastic hump protruded behind his back, and a riveted, bluish-pink head encased in a spherical cage of steel rods. The other, dressed in a short, dark-red hood with oil stains, seemed more human, except that his legs and arms and even the part of his head visible from under the hood glowed with polished iron and flecks of dull plastic patches.

Olga shuddered as the two buzzing corpses passed her, heading for the Chimera. The driver hurriedly climbed out of the iron womb, clearly happy in anticipation of the dead guests. The girl's reaction did not go unnoticed.

"Is something bothering you?" Demetrius asked carefully.

"I am... It makes me nervous... This," Olga hesitated, trying to find the words, her gothic skill still was not so fluent. "That kind of attitude toward the man. Even after the death."

"Many worthy men consider it their duty to continue to serve the Imperium," the Priest said admonishingly. "Even after death, if even a fraction of their bodies can benefit His work. It's an honorable and worthy destiny."

The couple who arrived were witching something by the engine compartment. It was like they were praying. The least of their actions looked like repairs. And the one on the cart was humming musically, like a small and silent instrument.

"What I definitely don't want to do is continue... being... like this," something that had been building up in the girl's soul finally erupted. "Even though my life before the Squad had sucked... shitty even... and people were almost all fucking assholes... but I'd rather stay the way I am. And if I die, I'd rather burn the fuck out than be... like this... brainless monster. Frankenstein!"

Olga's hand was pointing at the metal head. The girl did not immediately realize that hardly anyone knew the word "Frankenstein". But the reaction of the others to her outburst was... unexpected. The Savlar grinned vilely and grunted, dropping drops through the gap above his lips. The Holy Man and Crybaby sobbed in surprise, laughing, and Smoker laughed.

"What are you doing?" Big Bertha appeared from the opposite end of the wagon.

"Olla mistook a pinion for a servitor!" Still sobbing, Crybaby answered her. This time his tears seemed very appropriate and therefore frustrating.

"Tech-priest?" There was an unexpected reverence in the mentor's voice, even a kind of politeness. It's very strange. "I don't see you here very often. You're very welcome."

"A routine check of the speakerphone, the propulsion unit, and the sacred promethium system," the 'killer cyborg' said in an unexpectedly lucid and intelligent voice. His iron finger, more like a segmented tentacle, poked into the bowels of the 'Chimera' under the removed sheet of cladding, which hung from the crane-beam chains.

"Оh!" Bertha was clearly delighted. "Thank you for your timely concern. The Emperor protects."

"Of course."

In the lifeless voice of the 'cyborg' not an ounce of deference to the Emperor could be heard, but everyone pretended not to notice it. After some intricate manipulation of the tank's engine, the iron couple moved along the side, to where Driver had already pulled out the radio box. Accompanied by a musical buzzing sound, two tentacles with large screwdrivers on their ends and two more with pincers, like round pliers, protruded from the back of the human cart. The artificial 'hands' quickly removed the worn casing, revealing a surprisingly crudely assembled board on a piece of brown textolite, from Olga's point of view. 'Cyborg' spread his fingers and enchanted the board with surprising dexterity. Something hissed, sparks sprinkled, the instrument in the womb of the cart changed tones and seemed to play some kind of hymn through electronic filters.

"Done," the 'cyborg' reported. "The preliminary service is complete. May the grace of Omnissiah be with the machines around you and with you."

The entire repair took a few seconds. The cart-man waved majestically with all his limbs, his musical apparatus emitting a cheerful chime of timpani. The Driver smiled in genuine happiness. The girl involuntarily marveled-the the first time she'd seen something worthy of the term 'effective' since the ballistic station.

Having finished his work, the 'cyborg', accompanied by the servitor, went further, apparently about to move on to the next wagon. As he passed the girl, he suddenly raised his hand, and the iron finger of the 'cog' - whatever that nickname meant - almost touched Olga's nose.

"Victor Frankenstein's creation had no name of its own. Besides, the cadaver was made entirely of meat," Olga was ready to swear that there was a clear mockery in the artificial voice. "So calling me 'Frankenstein' is unreasonable."

"I'm sure this child meant no disrespect," the Priest diplomatically remarked, pulling on his thick gloves for working with acid containers.

"There's not much imperfect flesh left in me. But my life is much more interesting than yours," the tech-priest informed her before he left.

Stunned by the kaleidoscope of events, the girl ignored her colleagues' spiteless taunts, checked the tires on the cart, made sure the patch on the hose held together as a matter of course. Finally, she wandered back to her room, wishing she had never seen or heard of anyone else.

What Olga lacked was an ordinary door behind which she could hide from the world. No matter how you look at it, a tarpaulin curtain - just a cloth, though dense - does not give real privacy. But this point, as she had already realized, was crucial here. For some reason, any squadmate had to be within earshot and reach at all times.

In her compartment, Olga carefully draped the doorway with a curtain, trying not to leave the slightest slit. Behind the thin bulkhead, Wretched Man was listening to a pocket radio, apparently something sports.

"Burn them, burn them!" The Madman shouted wildly from below so that the girl flinched. "More fire! We're running out of fuel!!!"

The wretched man's voice was answered by Smoker, who loudly promised to the whole wagon:

"There's enough fire for everyone, brother!"

The Madman was suddenly silent, his comrade's voice apparently calming the sufferer's inner demons. I wonder what he saw... ...and who was to be burned? Xenos, was it? Or witches? In any case, Olga hoped she would find out as late as possible. Ideally, she would not have to until after her redemptive obedience was over. It would be too good, but she could dream, couldn't she?

The girl took a critical look at her new home. It looked more or less habitable, but empty, without all the little things that people accumulate to fill their environment. Hygiene kit, government towels, clothes, overalls with a gas mask in a special box under the bottom shelf. An official bible with frayed pages and plenty of faded stamps of a train captain. A board, cracked after a meeting with Savlar's face. That was all.

But Olga, as a novice and a staff member of the flamethrower unit, must be entitled to some money, even with extra pay for her harmful work, right? It can't be like that, with no salary at all. The cellmates buy various knickknacks for something, such as a radio or new crimson-colored pants. I'll have to check. Manicure, of course, is now a luxury, but somewhere to get at least the nail polish. And some other little things. And also...

Heavy footsteps were heard in the corridor. Servitor again? Or that... 'cog'? Back? What for?

Someone strode mightily toward Olga's very shelter, stopping beside her. Bertha said something softly, and after a short pause, the unknown male voice agreed. Strangely enough, the Mentor changed again to her usual tone of stern, angry demandingness. Now the bodybuilder spoke almost friendly, with undisguised respect.

"That's it," Big Bertha said. "From now on, you're a member of the Squad and a novice of the Order..." She was silent for a moment or two, and then she finished. "May the Emperor have mercy on your soul, silly boy."

"Born to serve, in life and death, with Him and Mankind," the man said in a resounding and beautiful voice as if repeating a motto he had learned by heart.

"That's right!" Bertha agreed and left.

Olga sat down on the bench, straightening and biting her lip. She took hold of the little eagle - this gesture had already become customary, it seemed that the crude self-made thing calmed her down. She wanted to pray to God the Emperor, for real, as the Priest had taught her so that the dead man on the golden throne would guide and strengthen her and all that.

One of the invisible men behind the tarpaulin curtain stomped around, sniffing like a little steamer or a big kettle. The other rustled like a man taking off a thick outer garment. Then there was silence, interrupted only by the usual background of the armored train, the soft chants of the pious Demetrius, and the same cryptic whistling. So a minute or two passed. Then there was a soft but steady knock on the edge of the doorway.

"Olga," said the invisible man behind the curtain. "May I come in?"

There was no light in the corridor through the thick curtain, but she thought she could clearly see the shadow of a tall man about two meters tall behind the tarpaulin.

"You did learn to pronounce my name right," she said, her voice carefully controlled.

"Yes."

There were flamboyant and pathos-laden phrases like: "it's been a long road". But the girl kept it short and succinct: "No. You are not welcome here."

And then she couldn't restrain herself, snorting angrily: "Go to ass, Fidus."

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